


If It Gets Too Late

by withpractice_ff



Series: Untitled [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withpractice_ff/pseuds/withpractice_ff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which nobody gets what they want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If It Gets Too Late

They head back to the clinic after finding the Sela Petrae, tired and bloodied. He tends to the wounds of his friends--still hard for him to believe, how many people here he’s come to care about, who’ve come to care about him--and then they take their leave, back to their own lives. Only Hawke remains, and he does his best to ignore the familiar tightening in his chest.

“Is it safe?” Hawke asks, and for a moment Anders isn’t sure what she’s referring to. “This potion, I mean.”

She’s worried about him. Of course she is. He turns away from her, wets a cloth for her to clean the caked blood from her skin.

“I don’t really know,” he says, trying to sound casual. “But I don’t see any other choice.”

He hands her the cloth, which she accepts gratefully, closing her eyes in relief as she presses the cool towel to her face, wiping away the grime. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he can’t help it.

“What if this doesn’t work?” she asks, always so direct. “I don’t want to lose you.”

His heart pounds in his chest, and he has to turn away again, looking out his open door into Darktown as he says, “I have to do this. One way or the other, I can’t go on like this.”

For a moment, there’s a silence between them, and he wonders what she’s thinking. Finally she says, “I understand. I just-- I worry.”

“Like a mother hen, you are,” he says, trying for some levity, and she smiles sheepisly.

He fixes some tea while she finishes freshening up, and he’s thankful for the distraction. He feels wired from their battles in the sewers, from being alone with Hawke--a jittery energy prickling his skin. As he pours the brew into their cups, he hears her move to put the cloth in with the laundry, and then suddenly she’s standing beside him, hovering over him. He can feel the warmth of her body radiating off of her, and even after all these years, it makes his pulse quicken.

“What?”

“I need to ask you something,” she says, something guarded in her voice.

 _Anything_ , he thinks, and he says, “Well let’s hear it.”

“Back there, in the sewers, you asked about me and Merrill...” she trails off, frowning.

“That’s not exactly a question,” he tries, and when she just continues to frown, he says, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, we’re friends, aren’t we?” And he nods, though the question is rhetorical. “So you’re entirely allowed to offer up your opinion, even when I don’t particularly want it.”

“Okay...” He shifts uncomfortably, wishing suddenly that there was more space between them. “So, what did you want to ask me, then?”

Her frown deepens, and she looks downright nervous as she asks, “Do you really see something I should be worried about, or do you just not like her?”

Which is not a question he had expected. And he doesn’t like her: she is selfish; she is dangerous; she is hopelessly naïve; she is a blessed blood mage. If it were up to him, Hawke would have nothing to do with her.

But she is also a sweet girl, kind-hearted and well-meaning, with an innocence about her that some might find charming. He can see why Hawke might like her, might fall in love with her.

“Anders?”

She rests a hand on his shoulder, heat spreading through his body at her touch. He hasn’t answered, she must be wondering if it’s something she said, and before he even realizes he’s going to do it, he’s kissing her, bringing his hands up to cup her face, walking her backward until she’s pressed against the wall, until his body is pressed against hers.

And to his great surprise, she is kissing him back.

Her kiss is desperate, needy--so much like his own--and she rakes her fingers through his hair, bites at his bottom lip, drawing a moan from him. She takes this opportunity to slip her tongue past his parted lips, and his hand slides down her neck, meets the rough leather of her armor. Her hand in his hair falls to his hip, slips around his waist possesively, trying to pull him even closer.

He is thinking that there are too many layers of cloth and leather and metal between them when he feels her fingers at the clasps of his robe, fiddling with the hooks. He doesn’t have even the beginning of an idea as to how to remove the complicated contraption she’s wearing, but he tries, moving his hands to her sides, tugging clumsily at the buckles he finds there.

And it’s then that Justice stirs.

She doesn’t seem to notice the way he suddenly tenses, moving on from the first clasp of his robes to the second, trailing bruising kisses down his neck. He takes a deep breath, tries to focus on the heat of her lips against his skin, but the energy pulsing through his veins is now of a decidedly different quality. Still, he tries to ignore it, memorizing the feel of her beneath his hands, the scent of her.

He’s freed the curiass and has his fingers on her skin when Justice rears again, louder this time, an angry voice in his head that he can’t quite distinguish from his own. He closes his eyes, presses his cheek to her hair, and her hands work their way under his robe. He’s painfully hard--has been since they started this, since he pressed his lips to hers and she didn’t pull away--and his entire body quivers as her fingers travel lower.

Justice sees where this is headed, and he does not approve.

Anders pulls away from her abruptly, bent at the waist with his hands braced on his knees, panting harshly. Hawke’s features shift rapidly from confused to concerned, and she approaches him cautiously, already fastening her buckles back into place.

“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” she asks, moving to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. But he bats her hands away, moving further out of her reach.

“No, don’t touch me. He won’t-- It’s not safe.”

She doesn’t understand, not at first, but then it hits her all at once, and she feels as though someone’s knocked the wind out of her. “Justice,” she breathes, talking almost to herself. “Of course, why wouldn’t he...”

She moves to the makeshift kitchen table, sits down hard on one of the worn wooden chairs and buries her face into her hands. He might try to comfort her, except he’s got his own problem to address at the moment. He closes his eyes, concentrates on steadying his breathing, and slowly he feels Justice flowing back into that deepest part of himself, feels his body become his own once more.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, fastening the clasps of his robe as he takes the chair across from Hawke. “I didn’t know he would-- I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Hawke laughs, sharp and brittle. “I rather thought that I was the one who shouldn’t have kissed you.”

The silence that comes next is heavy, weighted with all the things neither of them is willing to say. He thinks maybe now is the time to tell her--though he suspects she already knows, especially after what just transpired--that he’s still in love with her, that he never stopped loving her. And he’s about to do just that when she says, “I’m in love with Merrill.”

Yes, Merrill. He knows that well enough, but it doesn’t make it any less painful to hear. For fear of what he might say if he were to open his mouth, he stays quiet, and Hawke continues, “Things have been... strained, lately. It’s that blasted mirror, she’s always--” She stops, frustrated, and looks at Anders with guilty eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”

“If you’re not happy...”

“It’s not that,” she’s quick to correct, and he immediately feels foolish. “She’s having a hard time of it, and I guess by extension so am I. She’s been so distant, I feel like I’m never getting through to her...” She notices, then, the striken look on Anders' face, and she stops, changing direction. “Whatever problems we might be having, I love her. I’m sorry if I let you think otherwise.”

He wants to say it’s okay, but it’s not, not really. But Hawke has been the one person he has been able to consistently rely on, who he knows would truly give her life for his, and he needs her now more than ever. So he says, “We’ll be okay, you and I.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, hesitant and worried. “I care about you a lot, Anders. I don’t want to lose you because we once made a stupid mistake.”

“Well, maybe it won’t be today, but yes, I’m sure.”

Her relief is visible, and when he walks her to the door, she presses a quick, chaste kiss to his temple before she leaves. An apology, he supposes. And as he watches her disappear down the streets of Darktown, he wonders which lie he’s told her is the worst.


End file.
